


Just a Bowl of Cherries

by midnightfireworks



Category: Ocean's (Movies)
Genre: (kinda), 5+1 Things, Attempt at Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Not A Lot Of Plot, this was meant to be like 2k but uh 5k+ it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14758517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightfireworks/pseuds/midnightfireworks
Summary: “Good thing I brought back-up.” Danny retrieves a near-identical (Cool Ranch, not Nacho Cheese) bag of chips from a bag on the floor which Rusty hadn’t even noticed him having in the first place.“You got the flavor wrong.” Actually, he got the flavor completely right – the gas station had had a very limited selection when Rusty bought his – but Danny’s ego will surely survive without that extra confidence boost.The gleam in Danny’s eyes tells him that he probably knows, anyway.-----aka: Danny and Rusty, as told through food.





	Just a Bowl of Cherries

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: "They Say Love Sustains You, But Some Extra Food Doesn't Hurt (by Fall Out Boy)"
> 
> This is pretty dumb and clichéd and Not That Good, but I couldn't stop thinking about the Ocean's movies and their notorious partners-in-crime-but-also-LIFE, so here we are. I had a lot of fun writing this, in any case. Probably a bit too much tbh. 
> 
> Dedicated to the Ocean's fuckers in the Pacino fuckers group chat, since you guys made me rewatch/watch these movies and are therefore largely to blame for this

**_Cherry milkshake_ **

 

“You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that?” 

Danny, being Danny, grins in response. It’s a hot summer’s day, and the trunk of the car they’re leaning against with heaving breaths is like a stovetop against their hands, making Rusty shift uncomfortably until his points of contact with the vehicle are separated by at least one layer of clothing. Danny doesn’t seem affected by the heat, because _of course_ he doesn’t. They have been friends for about a year, but it didn’t take Rusty more than a few weeks to discover that Daniel Ocean is not bothered by anything – including being chased by foot down half of downtown Atlantic City, apparently.

Pickpocketing is pretty easy if you know what to do – distract the target, keep physical contact brief, don’t look suspicious, and perhaps most importantly: don’t look back – but every now and then, you’re bound to get unlucky, statistically speaking. 

“Good thing we’re quick on our feet,” Rusty pants, “you absolute asshole!”

Danny laughs, and he sounds nothing short of delighted, like Rusty’s pain is amusing to him. The dick.

“I’ll make it up to you, come on,” Danny says, nodding for Rusty to get into the car. At this point, Rusty has no idea what to expect, but he’s tired and sweaty and his mouth still tastes vaguely like iron, so he’s more than happy to get into Danny’s beaten Mercedez and zone out against the open window with the wind whipping against his face.

  


“Wait,” Rusty says as they flash past a Ventnor City sign, “we’re leaving AC?” 

“Just for a while,” Danny says, glancing over at him. His knockoff Ray Bans have slid down along his nose, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. “We’re going to Margate. There’s a dairy bar there I really like.” 

_Dairy bar_. Not what Rusty had expected (then again, there’s really no point in expecting when it comes to Danny), but dairy bars mean ice cream, so he’s not gonna complain

  


The establishment has the pastel colour scheme you’d only expect from a dairy bar: baby blues, light pink, mint green, and lilac. They sit down in a booth in the inner corner of the bar, and a young ginger-haired woman comes over to them with the menus. Before she’s had the time to hand them over, Danny stops her with a raised hand and orders two large cherry milkshakes.

“Trust me, it’s what you want,” he says in response to Rusty’s raised eyebrows.

Blindly trusting Danny is something Rusty has had to do a lot lately – actually, _always,_ come to think of it. Fortunately, Danny usually knows what he’s doing.

“How did you know about this place?”

“My mom used to take me here as a kid.”

Rusty looks at him expectantly, waiting for Danny to go on. The thing is, Danny usually needs a little bit of prompting – not a lot, not like being told what to do, just a subtle look or shrug. Sometimes, just remaining silent will do the trick.

Danny looks up at him and shrugs.“My dad gambled a lot, and my mom wanted to keep a little bit of an eye on him, so she’d come along on the trip, and she’d usually bring me, too. Since I couldn’t get into a casino, she’d usually camp me in the hotel room with some movies and free access to room service. Then, when she inevitably felt guilty about it the next day, she’d take me here.”

The waitress comes with their milkshakes before Rusty has time to reply. Which might be a saving grace, because he really doesn’t know what to say, anyway. The milkshake looks typically Americana, with a pinkish colour and small pieces of chocolate, topped off with a generous amount of whipped cream and a single cherry.

Danny didn’t lie, the milkshake _is_ pretty spectacular. Wonderfully thick, and rich with cherry flavour. Not the artificial kind, either, but the kind that Rusty can only associate with looking at old family pictures while stuffing himself with his grandma’s homemade pie. The whipped cream is clearly made from scratch (it doesn’t have that weird preservative aftertaste), and the cherry is fresh and sweet. He watches as Danny pits the cherry in his mouth and puts the stone on a napkin.

“When I was a kid, I used to swallow the pits,” Danny says with a smile when he catches Rusty’s eye.

“Don’t they contain cyanide?”

“Maybe, but I turned out fine,” he says around the straw. Some pink cream remains in the corner of his mouth. “Well, apart from the whole stealing thing.”

_The stealing thing_ is less cyanide and more knowledge that he could charm himself out of the direst of straits, Rusty thinks to himself. That, and an alarming combination of a quick wit, quicker fingers, and a questionable moral compass.

“To turning out fine!” he says and tips his glass. Danny’s eyes are on him, the way they always are. Dark, calculating, but with an amused glint and a certain softness that helps remind Rusty that even though Danny is older and cooler and more confident, he considers Rusty just as much of a friend as Rusty does Danny. With a small smile, Danny clinks their glasses together.  


 

“Did baby Danny stir shit up in AC hotels?” Rusty asks on the drive back. The sun is setting ahead of them, casting a soft orange glow all over.

Danny smirks. “He’d search the entire room for lost belongings and steal shoe horns and bars of soap.”

“Some things never change, huh?”

Danny grins and meets his eye from behind the sunglasses. “I’d like to think I’ve honed my craft a bit since then. But, no, some things never change.”

  
  


**_Cool Ranch Doritos_ **

 

Call him crazy, but Rusty enjoys planning a job almost as much as he enjoys actually doing it. Figuring out how to beat security systems, working out the most effective routes in and out, puzzling together the pieces, working past the eventual hiccups that are bound to happen, getting everything to work smoothly – he loves it all. It’s oddly satisfying, and it keeps his mind sharp and his hands busy.

That said, there is bound to be some (for lack of a better term) downtime. Like now.

He’s sitting in bed, leant against the faded ochre wall. Apart from his shoes, which he has haphazardly kicked off and onto the floor, he’s fully dressed; ready for any urgent calls that the team might direct his way. Which they usually do.

An old rerun of _The Brady Bunch_ is playing on the bulky TV across the room, but Rusty’s more focused on writing down the plan step-by-step in the notebook from the bedside drawer, making sure nothing has been overlooked. It’s a way to cope with the pre-job nerves, more than anything. Back when he and Danny were still in the early phases of their careers – can you call it careers? – he might discover something he had forgotten to account for, but he’s better now. More organized, more experienced, and more intuitive. Still, it never hurts to double check.

He’s interrupted by a series of knocks on the door. Four in rapid succession, two slower ones. Danny.

“It’s open!”

Sure enough, in steps Danny, dressed to the nines, as he always is. This time, he’s in a three-piece suit and a sixpence which makes him look more like a 1920s mafioso than an art curator – Rusty had told him as much, only for Danny to pull the hat further down and assure him that this look was all the rave in the art community these days (which sounded _odd_ , but Rusty really didn’t possess enough knowledge about the San Francisco art community and their stance on old-fashioned accessories to argue against it).  

“Airtight?” Danny asks with a nod to Rusty’s notepad.

“Like a goddamn Tupperware.”

Danny laughs, and it’s not his typical con man’s ruse, it’s his genuine, belly-deep laugh. Provoking it always leaves Rusty with a sense of pride.

“Just remember to–”

“Burn it,” Rusty finishes, “I will.”

 As soon as he’s out of his shoes and jacket (and, thankfully, that godawful hat), Danny flops down on the bed carelessly. Under him, something crunches. For a split second, Danny freezes at the unexpected sound, but then he just rolls his eyes. “You’re like a fucking squirrel.”

“A squirrel,” Rusty deadpans.

“Hoarding food everywhere.” 

Annoyingly, that startles a laugh out of Rusty. Danny subtracts a snack sized bag of Doritos from under his body. Tiny fragments of chips end up on the bed sheet in the process.

“I have to, if you’re gonna keep crushing it.”

“Good thing I brought back-up.” Danny retrieves a near-identical (Cool Ranch, not Nacho Cheese) bag of chips from a bag on the floor which Rusty hadn’t even noticed him having in the first place.

“You got the flavor wrong.” Actually, he got the flavor completely right – the gas station had had a very limited selection when Rusty bought his – but Danny’s ego will surely survive without that extra confidence boost.

The gleam in Danny’s eyes tells him that he probably knows, anyway.

“That’s why you’re the details guy.” He snatches the writing block out of Rusty’s hands and gives it a quick once-over. “Should we–” he starts, before looking up to see Rusty already holding up the lighter.  

“Let’s do it.”

 

 

**_Mulligatawny soup_ **

 

Another group of raucous students stumbles in, and Rusty sighs into GT. This bar isn’t his usual scene: the music is a bit too upbeat and a bit too conversation-impairing, and there’s more neon lighting than he’s normally a fan of. Apparently, it’s popular among newly-turned 21 year-olds, though, since they seem to make up a solid half of the clientele.

“Cheapest drinks in all of Cleveland, and the university campus is right nearby. They’re gonna keep coming!”

Rusty turns towards the sudden voice, which comes from the guy sitting next to him. It’s a guy probably around his own age, with curly dark hair and eyes, tall cheekbones and a dark leather jacket. 

“Then why are you here?”

The guy smiles and gestures with his martini towards the liquor bottles on the shelves in front of them. “Like I said: cheapest drinks in Cleveland.”

Rusty huffs out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

The bassline is thudding away in the background, and he can practically feel the vibrations ricochetting through his body, manifesting in his fingers as they drum against the countertop to the rhythm of the beat. He’s feeling restless. Him being here was never part of the plan. Right now, he should be relaxing in his hotel room, riding the last waves of the post-heist adrenaline high.

Instead, here he is, while Danny and the rest of the crew are hightailing it out of town because their mark got a little bit too suspicious of their scheme. Since he and the Mormons are the only ones who haven’t interacted with the mark yet, they’ve been given the exciting task of sticking around, laying low, and testing the waters until the others can make their return.

Going out drinking by himself is not the epitome of testing the waters or laying low, nor is it generally his idea of a good time, but the alternative is hanging out with Turk and Virgil Malloy for the night, and that sounds like a whole new flavour of hell.

The guy next to him keeps striking up a conversation, and Rusty humours him – it’s better than moping all by himself. He could probably try to get lucky with one of the ladies in the bar, but he’s not really feeling his mojo tonight, and most of the girls are probably at least half a decade younger than him, anyway. Besides, the guy seems funny enough and doesn’t ask questions that require Rusty to come up with half-assed lies in order to answer.

Rusty loses track of time, but soon enough the GTs he’s been sipping are starting to catch up with both him and his bladder.

 

There’s a layer of dragged-in dirt on the bathroom floor, which is vaguely sticky underneath his feet, and the walls are tagged down in coloured markers, displaying everything from phone numbers, love declarations, and in one particularly strange corner, discussion about the existence of God.

Stickers line the mirror, which shows a slightly flushed and droopy-eyed version of himself. With a wet hand, he quickly gives his hair a fix.

 

Not too far outside of the bathroom, the guy from earlier is leant casually (at least that’s the vibe he’s trying to give off) against the dark blue wall.

“Missed me?” Rusty asks amusedly as he heads over and slumps into the wall next to him.

“Something like that,” the guy mumbles, staring intensely at him. _His eyes look a bit like Danny’s_ , a voice inside his head supplies helpfully.

Before he can really process what’s happening, the guy is crowding him against the wall and leaning in. _Oh_. He tastes like red wine, and the light stubble on his jaw is rubbing harshly against his cheek. It’s not until the guy pulls away, a few seconds later, that Rusty realises he never responded to the kiss.

Sheepishly (though Rusty can tell he’s trying to come across as confident), the guy asks: “Did I read this wrong?”

Well, technically, _yes._ Rusty, who usually prides himself on his fine-tuned social antennas, didn’t have any idea he was being flirted with, or that he flirted back – at least, he doesn’t think he did. Still, he instantly misses having a warm body and a pair of soft lips against his own, so instead of answering, he grabs onto the guy’s neck and brings him back in.

They must have swapped the DJ for a better one, because the music feels a lot less grating now, Rusty notes absently, while he slips a hand up under the other guy’s shirt and lets himself be pushed up against the wall.  
  


He has a newfound mortal enemy, and it is the single stream of sunlight trickling in through a tiny sliver between the moldy curtains. It takes every ounce of energy and willpower in him to roll over to the side, and he mutters a very colourful string of words in the process. By the door, someone is stifling a laugh.

Immediately, he jolts up, ready (well, mostly) to fight off the intruder. As soon as he sees the familiar Armani suit, deep brown eyes and self-satisfied smirk, he groans loudly and slings himself back down. He swears he can feel his brain slam against his skull. “You asshole!”

Danny laughs. Had it not been for the fact that getting out of bed is about as tempting as taking a dive into an active volcano, Rusty would probably have strangled him.

“When did you even–”

“A few hours ago. Just me, though.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Danny sits down on the edge of the bed. “Fun night?”

Rusty grunts in response – he doesn’t really have the mental or physical capacity to do much more than that – and Danny chuckles and pats his leg through the duvet. He rolls onto his stomach and does his best to summon the Sandman.

 

Before he is blessed by the loving embrace of sleep, he vaguely registers a glass of water and a pack of Aspirin being put on his nightstand. He makes a mental note to buy Danny some flowers or something.

 

When he wakes back up, Danny is sitting propped up against the headboard next to him, reading a day-old newspaper. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says sunnily, without lifting his gaze from whatever column he’s reading. 

Rusty doesn’t dignify him with a response. After gulping down some water and a couple of Aspirins (one is probably more than enough, but he takes two anyway, because that’s just how shitty he feels), he lies down and stares up at the ceiling. He tries to just _not think_ , because as it turns out, thinking hurts.

The hotel room is quiet, save from Danny’s turning of pages, a low hum from the radiator under the window, and the light pitter-patter of raindrops. That is probably why, when his stomach suddenly rumbles, it sounds like the fucking San Francisco earthquake.

“Here,” Danny says as he shoves a tiny bucket of something into his face, still without looking at him. Rusty wrinkles his nose. “It’s soup.”

“You–?” Rusty says groggily, voice strained from getting up.  

“Had a feeling you might be kinda out of it,” he says with a shrug. “It’s cold now, but–”

“Thanks,” Rusty says earnestly.

Like Danny said, the soup is cold, but it helps chase the hollow, nasty hangover-feeling out of him, spoonful by spoonful. “Did the others–” he asks when the bowl is about half full (or half empty, but when it comes to food, Rusty is a _half full_ kind of guy – he’s nothing if not an optimist).

“Sorry I ditched you last night,” is what Danny says. Rusty takes that as an _it’s not important._  
  
“I still don’t see why I couldn’t come with you.”

Danny just gives him a wry smile. “Because time was of the essence, and if you came along we’d have to stop for snacks every 20 minutes.”

Clearly, that’s not the real (or at least not the only – he does get snacky) reason, but it makes Rusty huff out a laugh anyway. He shoves the part of Danny’s shoulder he can reach.

“And I thought giving you food would get me on your good side for at least out the day,” Danny sighs with crinkly eyes.

Rusty shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He keeps eating the soup.  
  


 

**_Red wine_ **

 

_We’re in Europe, we have to drink wine!_ Danny had reasoned. Rusty’s observation that the Czech Republic is not particularly well-known for its amazing wine culture fell on deaf ears, and now there’s an empty bottle of Merlot on the table, a Pinot Noir knocked over on its side under the table, and a bottle or two of _something_ rolled under the couch somewhere.

They’re half-watching some 80s movie that Rusty couldn’t recap the recent plot developments of with a gun to his head, and apart from a few occasional remarks (the actual cleverness of the remarks is in reverse proportion to their steadily increasing blood alcohol levels, but who’s gonna call them out on it?), they sit in companionable silence. Though, to be fair, all of their silences are companionable.

Wine has an interestingly specific (albeit not particularly well-documented) effect on Rusty: his skin buzzes, like he can _feel_ every skin cell vibrate at an atomic level; his bones turn into molasses, and even maintaining an upright position takes a commendable effort; he smiles more than he usually does – and last, but definitely not least: he feels the constant need to get under (or over, or _around_ ) the first person he sees.

Therefore, it is all but surprising that he ends up sinking heavily into Danny’s side during one of the many lulls in the conversation. Danny – flushed red; a bit more smiley and a bit more melancholy, all at once – has seen Rusty like this before, though, so he doesn’t mind. In fact, he wraps an arm around Rusty and brings him in closer.

Despite himself, Rusty is still a bit too self-aware to not smile wryly and lift his eyebrows from where he is practically sitting on Danny’s lap.

Danny, on the other hand, does not smile. Rather, he just stares intently at Rusty with a look on his face that even after several years of close friendship, even Rusty himself can’t decipher. With his pointer finger, Danny lightly traces the last echo of a smile on Rusty’s lips.

And Rusty, he’s not an idiot: he knows what _that_ means.

Slowly, but confidently (there’s no real reason to be nervous, this is _Danny_ – at least that’s what he’s trying to tell his heartbeat), he leans up to press his lips against Danny’s softly. To his relief, Danny hums contently against his lips and pulls him in closer. Emboldened, Rusty swings one of his legs properly across Danny’s thighs, ending up straddling him.

Their kiss is broken by the movement, and for a brief moment, Rusty wants to say something. Break the ice, in a way. Make some joke, or even just acknowledge the situation they’re suddenly in. He doesn’t dare do it, though. Besides, getting Danny’s lips back on his own is a far more urgent matter. Danny seems to agree, since he’s the one that grabs onto Rusty’s neck and brings him into an even more passionate kiss.

It feels so right. Of course it does. When you’ve learned to act and speak and damn well nearly _think_ in sync, it should come as no surprise that kissing, too, is just another act of perfect synchronicity. The give-and-take of working a scheme together translates seamlessly into the give-and-take of their lips. And Rusty, he’s been kissed a lot in his life – whether it be as part of a con or out of passion, by women or by men – but kissing Danny is good on such a whole new level that he’s surprised he hasn’t gone completely catatonic.

His fingers are trembling just a bit as he starts unbuttoning Danny’s wine-stained shirt. Danny hums against his lips and helps wriggle himself out of it. He then places his hands on Rusty’s waist, underneath his open Hawaiian shirt, and over his white tank top. His hands are so warm, big and firm – Rusty feels like putty in them, right away.

Unable to contain himself, he rolls his hips downwards. The movement jolts a surprisingly high-pitch and breathy moan out of Danny. The fact that he’s made Danny Ocean – the epitome of suave, cool and collected – make such a sound is very satisfying. But, the fact that he’s made Danny – his companion, partner in crime and most importantly: his best friend – make such a sound is nothing short of mind-boggling.

He can’t wait to do it again.

  


The following morning, they chase their matching hangovers away with a few shots of Jäger before they stumble their way to the metro station where they’re supposed to meet the others.

Neither says a word about last night.

  
  


**_Poutine_ **

 

Somber tunes are playing on the radio, accompanied by the pitter-patter of raindrops against the car windows. Fortunately, the trickling of rain does a good job at keeping them hidden from the mark they’re staking out.

It’s been a pretty uneventful day. They’re in the far outskirts of Montreal, away from the hustle and the bustle of the city, and it’s a rainy Tuesday evening. The man they’re staking out – or at least trying to – hasn’t shown his face for hours. Long and uneventful days are not uncommon in the early phases of a heist, but that doesn’t make them any more fun to endure.

When Rusty pulls out the now cold and soggy (but still surprisingly tasty) leftovers of the poutine he bought at a diner earlier, it’s more out of boredom than genuine hunger. While he eats, he studies Danny’s profile – it’s not like he has anything more interesting to look at, anyway – which has the five o’clock shadow Danny usually dons in the denouement of long road trips. For a second, he can feel the phantom of Danny’s light stubble against his cheek, his jaw, his neck, his inner thighs. He can feel the shivers crawl up his spine. 

He forces himself to shut everything down before his mind can travel any further. 

As the minutes pass by at a sluggish pace, it becomes evident that Danny is either admirably focused on the task at hand (which is possible, Danny made willpower his bitch way back in high school) or completely zoned out. A subtle frown suggests the latter, but there’s a downwards tilt to his mouth that makes Rusty think he might be lost in thought. Or maybe he’s just bored, as well. 

“This is a bi’ depressing, innit?” Basher says as he leans forward from his position in the backseat to tune the radio, and Rusty is shaken out of his thoughts.

The static noise between Basher’s station skipping is suddenly accompanied by the loud rumbling of Danny’s stomach. Without tearing his eyes from the window, Danny takes a sip of his lukewarm-if-not-cold coffee, as if that will somehow satisfy his hunger.

Basher settles on an upbeat French pop song and retreats to his pile of protein bar wrappers and intricate technical manuals in the back seat.

“You should–”  
  
“I’m fine.” He’s still staring out through the window. Or maybe he’s staring at it. Rusty really does not know.

“You haven’t had–”

“I know. It’s fine,” Danny says and takes a demonstrative sip of his coffee.

Usually, Rusty knows to leave Danny be when he’s in this kind of mood, but if there’s something Rusty believes in strongly, it’s to never work (or do anything, really) on an empty stomach.

Which is why he dumps the foam container with the rest of his poutine right down into Danny’s unsuspecting lap. “It’s not. Eat!”

This gets Danny’s attention. And Basher’s, Rusty spots through the rearview mirror. Both of them just stare at him, clearly perplexed. He gets it. There are certain things Rusty Ryan generally does not do: he never calls anyone first after a date, he never wears wigs (no, not even for heists), and most importantly: he never shares food. _(“You’re a Joey, you know that?” Danny had pointed out one time, about four hours into a spontaneous Friends re-runathon.)_

Rusty rolls his eyes and juts his head in the direction of the poutine. “Just eat the fucking food, will ya?”

Danny glances at him curiously for a second, but then his lips twitch and he picks up a fry.

Rusty looks at him until he has finished the whole thing.  
  
  


**_Chewing gum_ **

 

According to Rusty, there are many reasons to snack. The most obvious, of course, being hunger, but anyone who keeps up-to-date with medical journals (or documentaries, or just life in general) will be able to confirm that emotional stress also is a major catalyst. Boredom may be a less scientifically investigated factor, but Rusty is pretty sure that anyone who’s ever lived (at least in a first world country) can confirm its validity.

Another reason to snack, which Rusty suspects is the one that his personal affinity for it boils down to, is in order to concentrate. Although he can’t quite explain why or how it helps, it’s something he’s always done. Back in primary school, he would chew on anything and everything he could get his hands on – usually erasers, pencils and bits of paper; gum and mints were rare luxuries – much to the chagrin of his teachers and anyone who lent him stationary equipment.

Which is why, as he’s drafting up the best exit strategy from a museum exhibition (something which is quickly proving to be a lot more challenging than anticipated), he’s chewing a piece of gum with a lot of fervor.

The security system is gonna turn back on at 9:13, which means that their greaser – who they have yet to find – will have just eight minutes to retrieve the goods from the glass display cases (without breaking them), replace them with the fakes, put the display cases back as they were, and leave the room without being cau– 

“You’re gonna ruin your jaw if you keep doing that,” Danny pipes up from across the table. Rusty has no idea why he’s even there. Usually, Danny oversees the plan near the end in the planning phase and works as a consultant if Rusty’s torn between two options, but now that Rusty hasn’t even begun to crack the code, he’s not of much help. He’s sort of just sitting there. Rusty would be lying if he said that his silent, judging presence wasn’t increasing his stress ten-fold.

“Guess that’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

Danny sighs. “What I mean is: you need to relax.”

“I can relax when I’m finished,” Rusty says without taking his eyes off the heap of notes and blueprints in front of him. If they could turn off the power from inside the control room, they might be able to extend the duration of the electric shortage–

“Stressing is only gonna slow you down.”

“Right now, you’re slowing me down,” Rusty mutters. Although he was most definitely not joking, he can hear Danny chuckling. “And I’m not stressed.”

“Right, you’re just focused.” He emphasises the final word. Rusty glares at him with as much ice as he can manage. Danny holds his hands up in surrender. “At least let me help you.”  
  
“Be my guest,” Rusty says with an eye roll, while Danny stands up and walks over to Rusty’s side of the table. While it is admittedly a little bit cramped, Rusty is slightly taken aback when Danny sidles up so close that it’s hard to tell whether he’s behind him or beside him. Suddenly it feels very hard to breathe.

 

While Danny examines everything and hums distractedly, Rusty is hyper-aware of every point of contact between them: his shoulder, his hip, and even the back of his thigh where he can feel Danny’s leg flush against his.

Personal space has never been something the two of them have taken very seriously, but this is truly next level.

“What if you–”

“Nope.”

“Really? What about–”

“Not enough room.”

Danny looks back down at the papers again, and Rusty should, too, but he can’t stop glancing over at Danny. His signature concentrated dip of the eyebrows is back, and his jaw is clenched. Rusty has half a mind to offer him some gum.

“What if someone else went in earlier, before the electricity's cut, and took apart as much of the display case as possible without it showing? Before the banquet starts, Loughton will probably have enough on his mind; the staff will probably be all over the place for a while, so as long as we find a way to distract the guards–” 

Rusty can’t stop looking at his lips while he talks. He needs to get a grip. 

“Sounds risky,” he cuts in. He still hasn’t torn his eyes away.

“Isn’t that why we’re doing this?” Danny’s eyes are sparkling.

Rusty nods, “touché.” Their eyes meet. Neither tries to look away. His mouth feels dry enough to put the Sahara desert to shame. “I’ll… I’ll look into it.”

 

They still maintain eye contact. Danny’s gaze is so intense, as it always is. Part calculating, part amused, part mischievous. “Rusty,” he murmurs lowly, “that night–” Rusty nods, barely (he’s too scared to make movements too big; the atmosphere seems too fragile). “Do you..?”

The question hangs in the air, but Rusty picks it up right away. “No,” he huffs, a bit short of breath. “Do you?”

“Not for a second.” He smiles, and it’s so warm and earnest that Rusty thinks he could look at it for the rest of his life and still die a happy man.

This time, he has no idea who initiates the kiss – he’s pretty sure they both did, in perfect sync – because the next thing he knows is that he has a firm grip on Danny’s pristine shirt collar and that Danny’s hands are pulling and twisting in his hair.

Last time this happened, he was too numbed out by alcohol and repression, and too riddled with nerves and insecurities to really allow himself to take it all in, on an emotional level.

Now, he feels it all, with every nerve and every fiber: the rush of his blood like a live waterfall inside of his vascular system, the ringing in his ears, the prickling under his skin, the quiver in his legs. As he pulls on Danny’s lip with his teeth, resulting in a deep moan, he can’t help but think that on some fundamental level, _this_ is what they’re destined for. It was always inevitable.

 

(It’s not until they’re heaving for their breaths later that it dawns on him. “Did– did you steal my gum?”

Danny pushes it out between his teeth with a grin.

Rusty thinks that there’s a definite possibility that Danny Ocean is gonna end up stealing a lot more than just his gum in the near future. )


End file.
